


soundtrack of my summer

by amillionsmiles



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, ie they get high and talk about the jonas brothers, shitty garage band au, some mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 12:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13998225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amillionsmiles/pseuds/amillionsmiles
Summary: After his third year of college, Matt announces that he’s become the lead singer of a band.  They spend the entire summer practicing in Shiro’s garage.Pidge is too busy worrying about college apps and planning for her senior year science fair project to get involved in her brother’s antics.That is, until she meets the band’s bass player, and decides that maybe she can suffer through Matt’s shitty vocals after all.





	soundtrack of my summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ErinNovelist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinNovelist/gifts), [the_silverdoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_silverdoe/gifts), [rhapsodyinpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhapsodyinpink/gifts), [breeeliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breeeliss/gifts).



> this started as a shitpost in my head but now here we are, 8000 words later. Dedicated to Gabie, Priya, Erin, and Justine, without whom half of the scenes in this fic would not exist.
> 
> if you're interested in the playlist I made for this story, you can check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/user/12132853389/playlist/7bA6HCG1bAtXhGPTxwKuu8?si=4ZdtvmxORyGVKnu55dwdHA)

**Matt**

\---- Thu, May 17, 2:35 PM ----

 

Pidge  
PIDGE  
PIDGE I WILL KEEP SPAMMING

 

Gdi Matt wtf do you want

 

I left my notebook in my room

 

So come back and get it

 

Can’t  
We’re practicing  
Don’t wanna ruin our flow  
Can you bring it???  
!!!

 

No  
I’m busy

 

I’ll do your dishes  
For the next week

 

…fine

 

Rolling her neck to get rid of the cricks in it, Pidge pushed back from her desk, pocketing her phone.  Watching _The Wolf Among Us_ play-through on YouTube would have to wait.  Time to help her older brother’s sorry ass.  They were family, after all.

As always, the door of Matt’s bedroom got caught on one of his socks when Pidge opened it, and she spent the next minute balling up loose articles of clothing and throwing them on his bed for him to deal with later.  The notebook in question rested on his bedside table, precariously close to falling.

 **BAND STUFF,** Matt had scribbled on its flimsy green cover.

God, her brother was a fucking loser.

Tucking the notebook under her arm, Pidge went downstairs.

“Heading out?” Mom asked from the kitchen.

“Just for a little.  Matt forgot something so I’m dropping it off at Shiro’s.”

“Put on some sunblock!”  The rest of her mom’s instructions were lost as Pidge entered the garage, grabbing her helmet from the dusty bin shoved against one wall.

The summer heat hit her full force as the garage door rumbled upwards.  By the time she biked free of the driveway, she was already sweating, the foam lining of her helmet sticky against her forehead, stray hairs from her ponytail plastered to her cheeks.

Shiro lived about seven minutes away by bike, in a house he’d essentially inherited all to himself, now that his grandparents were in a nursing home.  He was their dad’s TA, and Pidge’s mom had taken to mothering him aggressively.  Largely, this meant inviting him over for dinner at least once a week, and making Pidge bring him a pie every other Sunday.

“You do realize he’s twenty-five and can take care of himself, right, Mom?” Matt said once, after a gathering in which Colleen Holt sent Shiro home with two brand-new ties and more casserole than a person could eat in a week.

“Meanwhile, you’re twenty-one and still forget to turn the fan on when you take a shit,” Pidge countered, which resulted in Matt putting her in a headlock until Mom called for them to knock it off.

Truth be told, Matt wasn’t as much of an idiot as Pidge made him out to be.  He was attending Garrison University one town over on a full ride, and Pidge missed him on the weekends when he didn’t visit home, even if she’d never admit it.  This summer, he’d managed to finesse himself onto a research project that still allotted him a ridiculous amount of free time.

Hence, the band.

The band was Matt’s latest _passion project;_ he hadn’t shut up about it since he’d officially come home two days ago.  It consisted of four members: Hunk and Lance, whom Pidge had attended high school with until they graduated last year and went off to Garrison University as well; Matt, obviously; and, finally, some other dude from out-of-state who was staying at Shiro’s place for the summer.  Apparently, he and Shiro had hit it off pretty well when Matt introduced them.  Pidge couldn’t recall the rest of the details, largely because she’d zoned out while Matt was talking.

A left turn, and she finally reached Shiro’s house, sweat-drenched from the journey and grumpy because of it.  She grabbed the notebook from her bike basket and marched up the driveway, unbuckling her helmet and shaking out her ponytail as she called: “All right, Matt, I brought your stupid noteboo— _oh._ ”

Shiro’s garage had been transformed into a grungy practice space with frightening efficiency.  A tangle of cords crisscrossed the floor, hooked into the speakers and amps.  The brassy cymbals of Hunk’s drum set gleamed under the dim lighting.  Lance’s banged-up keyboard sat propped up on its stand, electric blue duct-tape and all.

And in one corner, on a ratty old couch, a boy sat tuning his guitar.  A boy who was decidedly not Hunk, or Lance, or her brother.

Despite his all-black outfit, he seemed unbothered by the heat.  He had a shaggy mop of black hair, part of it curling around his ears and down the nape of his neck in a style eerily reminiscent of all the rock bands she’d liked during middle school.  Even more unsettling was that the look wasn’t totally hideous, at least on him.

At her approach, his eyes flicked upwards. 

“Uh, hi,” Pidge said, suddenly very aware that her cheeks were still red from exertion and her ratty Zelda T-shirt probably had pit stains.  “I’m… looking for Matt.  I’m his younger sister.” 

For a beat, they just stared at each other.  The boy’s attention was disconcerting; Pidge could sense his curiosity, backed by an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“He’s inside getting snacks,” he finally said.

“Right.  I’ll just wait here, then.”  She dragged her shoe in a half-circle before deciding there was no sense in prolonging the inevitable.  “So, uh, who are you?”

A half-smile.  The boy got to his feet, shrugging the strap of his guitar over his head in one fluid motion.  _Whoa,_ Pidge thought, watching the fabric of his V-neck shift—and then she caught herself and fixated on the wall instead.

“Keith,” he said, giving the strings an experimental strum.  “I’m your brother’s bassist.”   

There was no fucking way her nerd-ass brother had managed to rope someone who looked like _Keith_ into his band.  Were they paying him?  What the _hell?_      

“What did you say your name was?” Keith asked.

“Katie,” Pidge said, at the same time Matt, Hunk, and Lance burst back onto the scene, arms loaded with Capri Suns. 

“Yo, Pidge!” Lance grinned at her, tossing a drink to Keith with his free hand.  “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Keith caught the pouch easily, glancing over at her with one eyebrow raised. 

Pidge’s face burned.  Great, now she looked like a liar.

“Did you bring my notebook?” asked Matt.

“No, I brought the dog.”  Breaking eye contact with Keith, she turned to Matt to hand over the spiral.  “Also, I’m doubling my rate.  You owe me two weeks of dish duty.”

“What— _fine._ ”

“Starting tonight.”

“Why toni—Mom’s making lasagna, isn’t she.”

Smiling sweetly, Pidge patted Matt’s shoulder.  “Have fun.”

And then she beat a hasty retreat.  Years of living in the Holt household had taught Pidge the value of getting the last word.

As she pedalled away, she heard Keith say: “So that’s the famous little sister.”

“Yeah,” muttered Matt.  “Don’t be fooled by the fact that she’s like, pocket-sized.  She’d sell you to Satan for a corn chip.”

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

There was always something victorious about the first Monday of break, when sleeping in still felt like rebellion and not just another lazy summer day.  Pidge waited until noon to fully emerge from the cocoon of her bed, thirst sending her to the kitchen fridge.

“Hey.”

“Jesus fuck!” The orange juice carton almost slipped from her grip. 

Keith stood in the doorway, the same outfit as before, though this time a metal chain dangled from his belt loop, disappearing somewhere into a back pocket.

“What are you doing in my house?”

“Matt invited us over to play Smash.” 

Pidge cocked her head.  Sure enough, if she strained her ears, she could hear the boys: Matt’s belly-deep _whoo_ , Lance’s indignant _Hunk, I thought we had a deal!_

“How long have you all been at it?”

“Like half an hour.”  Keith’s gaze was cat-like as he inspected the room, eyes landing on her mom’s collection of fancy knives before flitting back to her.  “I’m looking for the bathroom, by the way.”  

“It’s to your left if you keep going down the hall,” said Pidge. 

She didn’t mean to follow—Keith seemed perfectly capable of navigating on his own—but somehow, she found herself walking beside him as they passed the family photos hanging on the wall.

“Just for the record,” she started, “I wasn’t lying the other day.  About my name.  I normally go by Katie; Pidge is just some dumb nickname that my brother and all his friends use.” 

Keith didn’t look at her directly, but the corner of his mouth curved upwards.  “I figured.”

“I mean, I guess technically you’re his friend too, considering you’re in the band and all.  So, like.  You can call me Pidge, too.  I guess.” 

“Katie’s fine,” said Keith.  They’d reached the bathroom door and he turned to look at her, one hand on the doorknob.  Pidge kept her arms crossed as she blinked up at him, resisting the urge to furiously finger-comb her hair.

“Right.  Glad that’s settled, then.  Enjoy your…” Her fingers fluttered.  “Bathroom break.”      

That earned her a smile.  Only a sliver, but it was there, like the quick _snick_ of a switchblade. 

“Needed it,” said Keith, stepping into the bathroom.  “The guys are vicious.  It’s like the Kinslaying in there.”

“Kinslaying?” Pidge echoed, thrown for a loop.  Keith had already closed the door, though; white paint was her only response. 

His eyes had dipped toward her chest when he said it.  With another guy, she’d have been outraged, but Keith didn’t seem like the type to blatantly check someone out.  Besides, she was Matt’s little sister, which probably put her off-limits, per whatever medieval band rules Matt had drawn up.

“…Oh.”  Her T-shirt.  She’d gotten it at a convention: plain white, with _MELKOR STOP_ printed on it in red.  Not only had Keith picked up on the _Silmarillion_ reference—he’d responded with one of his own.  A tiny, traitorous part of her nerd heart flared.  

The toilet flushed.  Pidge debated.  If she waited, she could accost him right when he came out—ask about his favorite characters, and which orc origin story he liked best, and—

_Snap out of it, Pidge!_

To avoid embarrassing herself further, she scurried up the stairs.

 

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

“What happened to _you?”_

Matt pivoted on his stool, a giant wad of gauze taped to his face.  It covered his left cheek, from just below the hollow of his eye to the corner of his jaw.

“We were advertising for the band in the skate park and some kid dared me to do a trick on the half-pipe.  I wiped out.”  He shrugged.

“Jeez.  Can I see?”

Matt obliged, peeling back the dressing to reveal a raw pink slash.

Pidge pursed her lips.  “It looks like it might scar.  Did you put Neosporin on it?”

“Yeah, I’m not an animal.”

“How old was this kid, anyways?”

“Dunno.  Like, twelve?  Thirteen?”

“Yeah, okay.  Word of advice: if you’re going to sell yourself as the lead singer of some grungy rock band, make up a better cover story for that, stat.  Say you got into a knife fight, or something.”

Keith, who’d been silent during the whole exchange, snorted. 

“Oh, you’re here,” Pidge said, as if she hadn’t been aware of his presence since the moment she’d entered the kitchen.  “Why didn’t you take the challenge instead?  Aren’t you supposed to be, like, my brother’s second?”

“Not actually much of a skater.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”  _Keep the conversation going, Pidge.  Be witty!_ It was hard to think of what to say next when Keith leaned against the counter so languidly, ankles crossed.  God, he had really long legs; if he stood up to his full height, her head would probably be right at his chin.  And nobody else she knew wore jeans that tight, except Lance when he was trying to impress someone—

“I can’t tell whether you’re always wearing the same outfit, or if you just own twenty different black shirts,” she said out loud.

Keith smirked.  “The mystery remains.”  

“Anyways, I’ve decided on the perfect first gig for us,” Matt was saying.  “Barbecue Bash.”

She spun to face her brother.  “You’re playing at Barbecue Bash?”

“Not _yet._   But I feel pretty good about our odds.”

Every year, the Homeowner’s Association rented out the local park for the Fourth of July.  The entire neighborhood was invited.  All the moms set up tents, the tables underneath them piled high with an assortment of foods.  Grills got dragged out, the air greasy with the scent of sizzling hot dogs and hamburger patties.  There was a contest for best pie (Colleen Holt had won the 2015 blue ribbon, an honor she still brought up during family reunions, even three years later), and the evening always concluded with some kind of entertainment before the fireworks exploded overhead in all their ear-splitting glory.  If Matt’s band could score a spot on that stage, then they really would be, in Lance’s words, “3 Legit 2 Quit.”

“Good luck,” said Pidge.  “How are you even going to do this, though?  Just waltz into the HOA and hand them one of your posters?  Do you guys even _have_ merch?”

“No worries, dear sister,” said Matt, puffing his chest.  “I already snagged us an audition.”

“You what?” Keith looked taken aback.

“Yeah, it’s in two weeks.  We’ll be ready by then.”  Matt waved a hand.  “I feel like we should build up some underground buzz in the meantime, though, so that the crowd’s not totally dead when we perform.  You’ll help us flyer, right, Pidge?”

“No, Matt, I’m not going to stand on a street corner advertising for your band. I’ve got—college essays to work on.  And science fair!  I have to start planning for science fair.”

“Please, you’ll have all of July to work on that.”

“Matt,” Keith interrupted.  “We can’t flyer if we don’t have a name.”

“You guys don’t have a _name?_ ”

“We do!” Matt replied, glaring at Pidge.  “We have multiple.”

The front door opened and Hunk and Lance walked into the kitchen, both of them wearing flip-flops and smelling faintly of chlorine.

“Wow, guys, thanks for inviting us to the party,” said Lance, though the crinkles around his eyes showed he didn’t really mind.

“Hunk,” said Pidge, because he was the only one out of the four she trusted to give her a straight answer, “what’s the name of your guys’ band?”

“We haven’t decided on one yet.”

“Have too!” objected Matt.  “What about the _Red Holt Chili Peppers_?  I proposed that last night!”

“We can’t be the _Red Holt Chili Peppers—_ you’re the only Holt,” said Hunk.

“Yeah, but I’m, like, the face.”

“Wait, no no no, clearly _I’m_ the face,” said Lance.  He pointed across the room at Pidge.  “Pidge, who do _you_ think is the face?”

 _Keith,_ she thought, and just as quickly squashed it, hoping her expression hadn’t betrayed a flicker of her internal processes.

“All of you are idiots and I want no part of this,” she declared.

Hunk rubbed his hands together.  “If we’re going off the whole incorporating our names thing, I propose ‘Hunkytown.’  ‘Cause like, funk, but also—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “ _Hunk._ ”

“Marooned 5,” said Lance.  “We could do a whole angsty introspective concept.”

Keith frowned.  “There’s four of us.” 

“Well _okay,_ Mr. Math Guy, I don’t see _you_ proposing anything.” 

An expectant silence followed.

“Oh,” said Keith, realizing.  “You actually wanted me to come up with something.”  He stood, pondering, gaze skipping from the fridge, to the cutlery hanging from the cabinet, to Pidge, to the window.  A long pause.  Everyone held their breath.  Then: “We could be The Pidgeons.”

“The Pidgeons?” Lance squawked.  “Where’d _that_ even come from— _oh,_ ‘cause _Pidge,_ I get it.”

“We can’t name ourselves after Pidge—she’s not even in the band!” argued Matt.

“Yeah, but that’s the point.”  Hunk stroked his chin.  “It’s ironic. I kind of like it.”

“I’ll only let you guys name the band after me if I get a cut of all the profits,” said Pidge. 

“Yeah, fuck you, we’re not doing that.”

“Matt! Be nicer to your sister,” scolded Hunk.

“It’s okay, Hunk, he’s just mad because he got beat up by a twelve-year-old earlier today in the skate park.”

“Oh, is that what the bandage is for?  I was wondering—”

“It was a knife fight.”

Lance swiveled toward Keith and stared.  “No way.  You’re lying.”

Keith returned his stare, deadpan.  “I was there. Why would I be lying?”

“You’re shitting me.  Matt, you were in a _knife_ fight?  Dude, why didn’t you call—”

Pidge’s mouth gaped.  Was Lance really going to buy it?  From across the room, Keith caught her eye—and _winked,_ the bastard. 

 _OFF LIMITS,_ the siren in her mind blared.  _CAUTION TAPE: DO NOT ENTER.  DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT EVEN **CONSIDER.**_

Outwardly, she rolled her eyes, proud of herself for maintaining composure.

“I’m going to do some work,” she announced, though Hunk, Lance, and Matt were too busy talking to notice anyways.  “Have fun picking less shitty band names.”

“Have fun with your science fair project,” Keith said as she passed him on her way out, and Pidge walked faster so that he wouldn’t see her smile.

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

**BAND NAMES**

~~Red Holt Chili Peppers~~

~~Space Cadets~~

~~Marooned 5~~

~~Lance Zepplin~~

~~Boyz R Us~~

~~Terminal Destruction~~

~~Matt & The Assholes~~

~~Deaf Leopards~~

~~Hunkytown~~

~~Galaxy Guys~~

~~The Pidgeons~~

~~Paladudes~~

**Solar Sound System**

 

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

At the end of May, Pidge’s mom had her bring another pie to Shiro.

“Sorry if it’s a little messed up,” said Pidge, picking at where the saran wrap had nearly melted into the crust because of the heat.

“No worries.”  Shiro took it from her and gestured inside with a tilt of his head.  “Want some lemonade?”

“God yes, please.”  She stepped into the foyer, welcoming the blast of air conditioning that hit her skin.  “Where’s Matt?  I didn’t see anyone practicing in the garage.”

“They’re all in the backyard.” Shiro set a glass on the granite counter, ice clinking against its sides as he poured.  Pidge accepted it and took a huge gulp, wiping her mouth dry with the back of her hand.

“Doing what?” 

Shiro shrugged.  _See for yourself._

Pidge finished the rest of her drink and let herself into Shiro’s backyard, the screen door sliding shut behind her.  Immediately, the smell of marijuana wafted toward her, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass.

So much for Shiro being an upstanding adult influence.  Though, legally, she supposed, all four of the boys in front of her were considered adults, too.

Lance had taken off his shirt and was sunbathing on a towel.  Hunk wore a burnt orange bandana around his forehead and laid with his arms spread-eagle, like he’d gotten halfway through making a grass angel before stopping.  Meanwhile, Keith and Matt sat in the grass, passing a joint between themselves.  Inexplicably, Matt had also taken off his shirt.

“You’re going to get a sunburn, dumbass,” said Pidge, walking over to stand in front of them.

Matt grinned dreamily up at her, lifting one hand to shade his eyes.  “Get baked or get _baked,_ am I right?”

“Shouldn’t you guys be practicing?  Your big audition is next week.”

“Shhh,” said Lance, cracking one eye open to look at her.  “Take a chill pill, Pidge.  Join us.”

That got Matt’s attention, despite his state.  “You can’t offer my sister drugs.”

“Better us than some random dude on her freshman hall.”

“Oh, yeah, men are the _worst,_ ” said Hunk.  “Don’t trust them.”

“Riiiight,” said Pidge, glancing at Keith.  He was quiet, as usual, but she could tell the haze had affected him, too.  He seemed looser.  More relaxed.  He’d closed his eyes and had one hand in the grass, like he was feeling for some sort of deeper connection.  At her stare, though, his eyes opened; Pidge quickly looked away.

“I feel like I’m being absorbed by the ground,” said Hunk, having boarded a new train of thought.  “Guys… I know we decided on ‘Solar Sound System,’ but what if we were… plant food.”

Matt gave the joint to Lance and lay down as well, the grass rustling under his weight.  “ _Dude._ ”

“Dude,” Keith mimicked, nudging Matt’s knee lazily with his shoe.  With his left hand, he reached up to push his fingers through his hair, drawing a surprisingly vehement reaction from Lance.

“Ha!  There it is again!  There’s the move!”

Keith frowned.  “It’s not a _move._ ”

“It is _totally_ a move,” said Lance, shoving his finger dangerously close to Keith’s face, to the point where it almost went up Keith’s nose.  “It’s like—what’s that word for the thing peacocks do?” 

“Preening?” Pidge offered.

“ _Yes,_ preening.  It’s like—‘Look at me, I can make my arms flex, also I look sexy with my hair pushed back.’”

From his position lying down, Matt guffawed.  “Keith doesn’t look sexy with his hair pushed back!”

“Yes he does!”  Lance seemed personally offended by Matt’s objection; he looked around for someone to second his argument.  “Hunk—no, wait, Pidge.  Pidge, tell Keith he looks sexy with his hair pushed back.”

Pidge’s cheeks flamed.

They were just being a bunch of dumb college guys.  If she walked away now, it wasn’t like any of them would chase after her.  But Keith had tilted his head to the side, waiting for her answer, that same liquid intensity in his eyes.  Something about the atmosphere made it more potent.  She felt slightly fuzzy, as if she’d taken a drag, too.  Was that a thing?  Secondhand high?     

“Your hair…looks sexy…pushed back,” she said, each word another nail in some invisible coffin she’d constructed around herself.

Keith took it in stride.  “Thanks,” he said, treating her to a smile.  This one was new.  Not teasing, like most of his earlier ones had been.  It wasn’t full-blown, either, but it was open.  A smoothening of the brow.

 _God,_ Pidge thought, mildly disgusted with herself.  _I’m making them sound like baseball cards.  Collect them all._

Content with his victory, Lance moved on.  “Hey… wait.  Have you guys ever thought… does anyone else think Keith could maybe be an Asian Joe Jonas?”

“Pidge used to have a huge crush on Joe.”

Too far.  “Shut the fuck up, Matt,” she warned.

“Yeah?” prodded Lance.

“Yeah, she had this giant poster in her room.  Like, giant.”  Matt stretched his arms out for emphasis.

Lance poked Hunk.  “Dude, who was your favorite Jonas?”

“Nick, obviously.”  Hunk took another minute to consider.  “Why do you guys think nobody liked Kevin?”

“Fuck you!” said Matt.  “I liked Kevin!”

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

**Matt**

\---- Wed, Jun 13, 3:20 PM ----

 

Pidge  
PIDGE  
PIDGE WE GOT THE GIG

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

Pidge stared at the string of lights in her hand and the peg above her head, taunting her.

They’d been working on cleaning the garage and setting up an awning over Shiro’s driveway for most of the afternoon.  The supplies came from Lance; back in the day, the McClain family was well-known for constructing an elaborate haunted house on their driveway every Halloween.  Once Lance left for college, though, the tradition had died out, to Pidge’s disappointment.

But now it was being revived, albeit in a different form, because Matt had decided to throw a party to celebrate scoring the Barbecue Bash stint.  How he’d convinced Shiro to let the band host it at _his_ house was beyond Pidge.  Then again, maybe not.  Shiro was a saint. 

“It’ll be the perfect practice run,” Matt told the guys, spreading out some shoddily sketched blueprints as if they were readying for war.  “Lights, camera,” his voice deepened, “… _ladies._ ”

Pidge covered her ears and fake-gagged.  “Please stop.”

Matt just grinned wider. 

As the only two of their crew officially of age, he and Shiro had gone to buy alcohol for the night.  The minute they’d left, Keith and Lance had taken a break from working, whipping out their fake IDs to compare.

“Bit rough on the haircut, huh,” said Keith, referencing the way Lance’s ears stuck out in his picture, thanks to the close-cropped look he’d sported.  Pidge muffled a snicker.

“Fuck you, mullet,” said Lance, but with little malice.

“Um, hello?” came Hunk’s voice as he pulled up to the curb, opening the trunk of his sedan to reveal a mountain of paper plates, pineapple, and various meats.  “Can I get some help with this?”

Hunk had appointed himself chef for the night.  Not that any of them would have disputed it.  In their heads, they’d all been secretly begging for him to volunteer.  Every time she thought ahead to the evening, Pidge’s mouth watered; Hunk’s kebabs were to die for.  

“I got you, big guy,” said Lance.  They’d all dispersed back to their tasks after that.

Which left Pidge where she was now, cursing her short arms.

She rose on her tiptoes, stretching higher.  The tower of boxes she’d already stacked underneath her feet wobbled.  The peg remained out of reach.

The reasonable part of her said to find Lance and grab the ladder from him.  But the more stubborn—and, admittedly, lazy—part of her won out.  She could work with this.  She’d _make_ it work.  Shoot for the moon so you’d land among the stars.

Fashioning a loop in the lights, she started to twirl the string, gaining momentum.  Around and around and around.  She let it fly.  The makeshift lasso landed around the peg; quickly, Pidge caught the loose end she’d left herself, pulling the string taut.  

“Aha!”

“Nice,” said someone from behind.

Whirling around, Pidge found Keith leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

“Gee, thanks for offering to help.”

“You looked like you had it under control.”  He pushed off the wall as he said it, sauntering over.

He did that a lot, Pidge noticed.  Not the sauntering—Keith’s usual movements were filled with a subtler grace.  But the leaning thing.  Other people might have thought it lazy, but with Keith it was more like… he was anchoring himself.  Making a deliberate choice to stay.

He stopped next to her and held out a hand.  Pidge passed him the remaining lights, watching as he crossed to the other side and threw them up easily.

 _Well,_ she huffed.  _That_ wasn’t fair. 

Gingerly, she got down from her boxes, pushing them back into a corner.  “Are you nervous for tonight?”

“No.  What about you?  Excited to be the official photographer?”

Pidge made a face.  “Lance is already being bossy about it.  He told me to stay toward the left of the stage, since that’s his good side.”

“He needs all the help he can get,” joked Keith, and Pidge wanted to say something clever, anything to keep the conversation going, because she liked the slight rasp in his voice, the way he angled his shoulders toward her to indicate when he was listening.  She took a step forward, toeing some invisible line, and one of Keith’s eyebrows jumped, challenging.

“Hey, Keith—”

A horn honked.  The moment broke like a water balloon. 

“What up, bitches!” Matt had returned with all the pomp of a high school football hero.  Rolling the windows down, he stuck out his head.  “We got a keg!”

 _One of these days,_ thought Pidge, _I’m going to murder him._

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

Midnight, and the party was in full swing.  Shiro had locked himself in his study, the poor soul.  They hadn’t gotten any noise complaints from the neighbors, yet, though, and nothing had been trashed.  All in all, a success. 

Aimlessly, Pidge wandered from room to room.  She’d bumped into a few people from her high school, but most faces were unfamiliar.  In the backyard, Matt entertained a crowd of rapt listeners.  He’d altered the story around his cheek scar again; this time, he’d “gotten it while crowd surfing.”

She smiled.  Let him bask in the attention; he deserved it.  The band had played well tonight.  Pidge had gotten some good shots that she was excited to print later: Hunk catching one of his drum sticks in the air; Lance on the keyboard with the long line of his neck exposed, grinning directly at the camera; Matt crooning into the mic for one of the slower songs; Keith with his fingers on the frets, a slight furrow between his eyebrows.

“Pidge!” Out of nowhere, Lance materialized.  “Come play beer pong with me.”

“I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you, duh.”

“All right, fine.”  She followed him into the next room, where a table was being reset for a new game.

“4 3 2 1,” Lance instructed, passing her the red solo cups.  As she arranged them, he followed with the can of beer.  “So.  Keith, huh?”

Pidge’s hand jerked.  The beer sloshed, some of it spilling over her hand and onto the table.  

“Damn, Pidge.”  Lance was full-on grinning, now.  “Work on your poker face.”

“I don’t like Keith.”

“Hey, look, I’m not judging.  I get it.  He’s got an ass, he plays bass, he’s working the whole broody and mysterious aesthetic.” 

Pidge narrowed her eyes at him.  “You’re actually talking him up?  The other day you called him an awkward loner.”

“Did I?” Lance frowned.  “Nah, man, Keith’s got game.  It’d be annoying if I didn’t fall for it on semi non-consistent occasions.”

Given this new information, Pidge felt like she needed to reevaluate every interaction she’d had with Keith so far.  Her head swam.

“What’s in that?”  She pointed to Lance’s cup.

“Vodka cranberry.”  Sympathetically, he held it out to her.  “Want some?” 

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

Three rounds later, Pidge found Keith on the couch in Shiro’s living room, nursing a dark amber bottle. 

“Hey,” she said, making a grab for it.  The back of her neck felt hot and exposed, thanks to her ponytail.  She’d lost the flannel she’d tied around her waist earlier.  Good riddance—she was too warm for it, anyways.  Thank god for crop tops.

“Whoa.”  Keith pulled it out of her reach, a hand on her shoulder.  She couldn’t tell if he was trying to steady her or keep her at bay.  “You’re not old enough to be drinking.”

“Neither are you,” she fired back, trying to sit down on the arm of the couch.  She missed and wound up on the floor instead.

“Okay.”  Keith crouched beside her.  The jeans he was wearing today had rips in them; they looked like claw marks.  _Like a panther,_ she thought.  He tugged at her elbow.  “I’m taking you home.”

“Don’t wanna,” said Pidge, but stood up anyways.  A warm body at her side kept her in place so that she wouldn’t sway.  “Matt.”

“Matt can take care of himself.  How’d you even end up like this, anyways?”

“Beer pong.  Lance. Is it normal to feel this bloaty?  I feel like a balloon.”

“You’re definitely drifting like one.”  Magically, they’d floated upstairs.  The party seemed farther away, now.  Dimmer.

Keith rapped on Shiro’s door.  “Shiro, I need your keys.”

The bedroom door opened and Shiro peered out, blinking from behind wire-rimmed glasses. 

“What—oh.”  A jangle, and the car keys plopped into Keith’s outstretched palm.  “Do you need help?”

“Nah, I’ve got it.  I’ll be back in a few.”

Shiro looked worried.  “Take your time.”

Downstairs, again, this time through the kitchen.  Keith grabbed a bottle of water from one of the coolers and passed it to her.

“Drink this.”

Fumbling, Pidge tried to unscrew the cap.  Eventually, Keith felt sorry for her and took it back, undoing it for her.  She gulped it down messily, some of it splashing onto her shoes as they entered the garage.

“Ahhh.”

Keith eyed her.  “Better?”

“Good.” Pidge nodded vigorously.  “I’m _so_ good.”

Shiro’s car was parked on the curb since they’d had to make space for the performance, but a different vehicle caught her eye—sleek, red, and shiny.

“Whoa.  Whose is _that?_ ”

“That’s mine,” said Keith, steering her away from the motorbike.

“I wanna ride it.”

“Maybe another time.”  He squeezed her hand, which shocked her into looking down.  When had _that_ happened?

The pads of his fingers were rough with calluses.  That made sense.  All those hours of practicing, plucking at strings.  Heartstrings.  The way he cradled the neck of his bass guitar.  His hand was big enough to cup her entire cheek.  And gentle.  So gentle.

“Katie,” said Keith, an echo of laughter in his voice.   He withdrew from her grip, and if she hadn’t been so out of it she’d have been mortified that she’d just put his hand against her face and _nuzzled_ into it.  Instead, she was disappointed.  “C’mon, let’s get you buckled up.”

It took three minutes to get to her house.  Pidge ducked her head between her legs when they pulled up to the curb, even though all the lights were off.

“Katie?” A hand smoothed some of the hair back from her face.  “Are you going to throw up?”

“We can’t go through the front,” she said.  “My parents will see me like this.  Mom’ll kill Matt.  And then me.  And then you guys won’t be able to play at Barbecue Bash—”

“I’m pretty sure your parents are asleep.”

“We’ll go through the back,” Pidge decided.  “Follow me.”

“Katie, wait.”  Keith unlocked the door to run after her. 

“The tree’s right by my window, which I never lock anyways,” Pidge explained, stepping into the backyard.  Behind her, Keith caught the gate before it could slam shut.

“That’s dangerous.  You’re going to get robbed.”

“Please, you’ve been living in this neighborhood for, what, a month now?  We’re as suburban white mom as it gets.  Besides, I have everything booby-trapped.”

Keith paused mid-stride.  “Booby-traps?”

“Kidding.  Here, give me a boost.”

They’d reached the base of the tree.  Shaking his head, Keith said: “No, I’ll go up first.”

He hauled himself onto the first branch before she could protest.  In the moonlight, he looked like a cat burglar.  After he’d gotten her window open, Keith jumped back down, then turned and offered her his back.

“What?”

“Get on.”

“There’s no way you can carry me—”

“ _Trust_ me.”

“All right, fine.”

Awkwardly, Pidge looped her arms around his neck, crossing her legs around Keith’s waist.  She felt like a koala.

“Don’t let go,” Keith warned.

Miraculously, they made it up the tree.  When they stepped fully through the window, though, Keith tripped over a wire.  A bright flash went off and he staggered, dropping her onto the bed.

“You said you were kidding about the booby-traps!”

Giggling, Pidge grabbed his arm to prevent him from moving.  If he found the hidden camera, he'd probably delete the footage.

“Your face,” she gasped.  “You looked so surprised.”

“Funny,” Keith grumbled, but his mouth twitched with shared humor.

Content, Pidge let go and flopped back onto her mattress.  Meanwhile, Keith took stock of the room.  Pidge tried to envision it through his eyes.  What must he think of the model rockets, the glowing stars stuck to the ceiling?  The stuffed mermaid doll wedged in the corner of her bookcase?

Setting the bottle of water down on her bedside table, Keith picked up the book she’d left there.

“The Lost Moonflower,” he read slowly.  “Is this one of those harlequin romance novels?”

Pidge pushed herself up into a sitting position.  “So what if it is?”

“Nothing.”  Keith looked chagrined.  “I just thought…  With all your T-shirts and stuff, I assumed your bedtime reading would be _Dune_ or something.”

“I’m allowed to contain multitudes.”

“You’re right.” 

He was looking at her like she was a puzzle box he wanted to pick apart.  It made Pidge want to crawl inside his head and open him up, too.

Breaking eye contact, Keith set the book back down.  “You should get some sleep.”

“But I wanna talk to you.”

“In the morning,” Keith said, a softness to his voice that she hadn’t heard before. 

“Hmph.”  Pidge kicked off her shoes, curling more fully onto the mattress.  “I’m not tired.”

“I’ll read you something, then.  Any preference?”

“Tolkien,” said Pidge.  “Because you like him, too.”

“All right.”  He crossed to her bookshelf, using his phone as a flashlight to locate the title he wanted.  Once he had it, he took up residence on her windowsill, a knee propped up to support his arm as he flipped through the pages.  

“Do you want me to start at the beginning?”

“No.”  Pidge shifted, eyelids beginning to droop.  “Just pick your favorite part.”

“Okay.”  A rustle; the sound of deliberation.  And then, pitched low, the introduction to the Noldor, names like _Fëanor_ and _Aredhel_ skipping lightly off Keith’s tongue.

“A sister they had,” he read, and here he slowed.  “Galadriel, most beautiful of all the house of Finwë; her hair was lit with gold as though it had caught in a mesh the radiance of Laurelin.”

His voice had tapered off.  Pidge could sense him studying her, trying to tell her something, but her head felt like it did after too many hours of debugging.  Fuzzy and full of cotton.  She wanted to tell him something important, too.  Something that might slip away by morning.

“You’re not emo,” she mumbled instead, eyes fluttering shut to the silhouette of a boy in her window.  “You’re a nerd.”

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

 

The next morning, Pidge woke up to a knock on her door. 

“Open it,” she grumbled, peeking out from underneath the covers.

The doorknob turned.  Matt stood in the hall.

“Oh, good, you’re alive.”

“No thanks to you.”

“First time drinking and you didn’t puke up your guts.  Color me impressed.”

“Get lost, Matt.  Did you at least get laid last night?  No, wait, don’t answer that.”

Matt raised his hands in surrender.  “Don’t shoot the messenger.  Keith just wanted to check if you were okay.”

“What does Keith have to do with—oh,” said Pidge, as the subject in question appeared over her brother’s shoulder.  “Hey.”

Keith raised an eyebrow.  “Hey.”

Matt shot her a look, like: _why are you being so weird around my friend?_

“I’m going to make breakfast.”  He glanced at Keith.  “Want anything?”

“I’m good.”

And then Matt was walking away.  Pidge wanted to chase after him, but she also didn’t want to get out of bed.  She hadn’t changed out of her clothes from last night, and although they hadn’t been that skimpy to begin with, the idea of standing in them in front of Keith spiked her self-consciousness.

Oh, god.  He’d been in her _room._   _He’d read her to sleep!_

“I’m taking my bike into town later tonight,” said Keith, finally breaking the silence.  “If you wanted to come.”

Pidge tried to make sense of it.  Was it—he couldn’t be asking what she thought he was.

“Yes,” she said, trying not to sound as if all airflow to her brain had been cut off.

“Great.” Keith smiled.  “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

 _Fuck,_ Pidge thought eight hours later, standing before her mirror.  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._

The clock read 7:40.  For the past half hour, she’d kept changing outfits, trying to find one that didn’t scream _overeager._   For all she knew, this was just a _thing_ that Keith did, casually.

That flustered her further.  How many other girls had Keith picked up on his motorbike?  And how was she even supposed to compare?  He was a college boy, with all these experiences.  All she’d done this summer so far was think about applications and science fair.

Granted, Hunk, Lance, and Matt were college boys, too, and they did dumb shit like challenge each other to pear-eating contests.  But she’d grown up with them, so that was different.

A tap at her window.  Pidge jumped, whirling toward it.  No one was there.

Another tap.  Was that—a _pebble?_

“Are you serious?”  She pushed up the glass to find Keith standing below, hand poised to toss another rock.

“Thought I’d try the back entrance at a more respectable hour.”  He tilted his head.  “You ready?”

 _Nah, man, Keith’s got game,_ Lance had said.

She hated this.

“I’m coming down.”

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

For a first date—if it was that—it went surprisingly well.  After running errands, they got McDonald’s.  Keith drove them to an outcropping that overlooked town, where they made a game of counting the airplanes coming and going.

Keith was a good listener.  He didn’t always look directly at her when she talked, but he had a certain way of tilting his head that let her know he’d taken note of every word.  Gradually, Pidge shed her inhibitions, and then they were talking about sci-fi movie adaptations and debating milkshakes across fast-food chains.  _(“Okay, but Steak ‘n Shake, though.  It’s literally in the name.”)_

It was hard to say goodbye, then, when the night finally ended.  Mostly because Pidge didn’t know where it would leave them, and she was too afraid to ask.

 _I had fun today._   No, she couldn’t say that—that sounded like every teen movie post-date line she’d ever heard. 

In her pocket, the plane Keith had drawn when he talked about his aerospace engineering major burned.

 _Thanks?_   No, that was half-assed.

“Something on your mind?”  Keith stopped short at the door.

“We’re a total cliché,” blurted Pidge.  “The whole 'girl and her older brother’s friend.'”

The words dropped into the silence between them.  Pidge tried not to wince.  She’d really done it now.  Forced Keith’s hand.  He’d either have to confirm or deny that something was happening between them.

Keith studied her carefully.  “Is that bad?”

“I…”

Her hesitation seemed to decide something for him.  He reached over, ruffling her hair.

“‘Night, Pidge.”

“Keith—”  She started the sentence but didn’t know how to finish it, and so she watched him walk away instead, his motorbike peeling out of the frame of her vision like a dream.

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

“Please, Pidge?  _Pleaseeeeee._ ”

“No, Matt,” said Pidge, setting down the box she was carrying with a heavy _thunk._ “I’m not going to do the lighting for your show.”

“Why not?”

“You said it yourself!  I’m not a member of the band.”

“So?  You could be, like, our tech hand.  Or— _manager,_ ” Matt amended in response to Pidge’s glare.

“No.”

“Oh come on!  You could put it on your resume.  Show that you’re, you know, well-rounded and live an interesting life.”

“What the fuck, Matt, since when did I do anything just to put it on my resume—”

“Hey, language,” joked Shiro, breezing past them through the garage.  Shortly after, he stubbed his toe against one of the amps.  _“Fuck.”_

“You’re always around here anyways,” said Hunk. 

“What?” Pidge blinked; she’d gotten distracted watching Keith push a lock of hair out of his eyes.  “I mean—no, I’m not.”

Things hadn’t been…weird, exactly, since their semi-date two days ago.  In fact, they’d been pretty normal.  Keith still talked to her, and everything.  But the faint probing spark that had underlain all their earlier interactions had faded.  What made Pidge sadder was that she hadn’t even noticed it was there until it was gone.

How did you ask for something back when you’d never really had it to begin with?

So yes, the weekend had left her horribly frustrated.  And she was taking it out on Matt, perhaps unfairly.

“Barbecue Bash is in two weeks, Pidge,” Matt tried again, this time more earnestly.  “We can find someone else, but… I’d really like it better if it were you.”

 _Suck it up and be a big girl, Pidge._ She could be mature about this.

“Okay,” she said.  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

“Hunk, stop drumming against my back.  You’re going to make _me_ nervous.”

“Sorry.”  Hunk stepped away from Lance, sliding his drum sticks into his back pocket.  “It’s just.  There are a _lot_ of people out there.”

“And they’re all going to love you,” said Pidge, squeezing his hand.

Hunk squeezed back.  “You think?”

“I mean.”  Pidge shrugged.  “I’ve put all this work into making you guys _look_ good, so… you might as well sound good, too.”

Hunk smiled, pulling her in for a hug.  “Thanks, Pidge.”

“All right, they’re announcing us now.”  Matt bounded up the stage, behind the curtain.  “Pidge, you should probably get to the lighting desk.”

“On it.”

Her lighting desk was set up toward the back of the crowd, to give her the best view of the stage and how her effects were actually playing out.  On her way to it, she kept scanning the people in front of her, restlessly tapping the water bottle she was carrying against her leg.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Keith materialized.  

“Keith.”  Pidge thrust the bottle at him.  “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”  He looked like he wanted to say more, but up on stage, someone was announcing: “Please give it up for our entertainment for the evening: Solar Sound System!”

They went their separate ways.  Pidge refocused, concentrating on the task at hand.  She had a light show to run.  Deftly, her fingers started up the console, flipping switches and adjusting sliders.

And the band rose to meet her.  Keith came out strong on the bass, spotlighted in red, and then Hunk started on the drumline, Lance’s keyboard notes weaving in and out, Matt’s voice layered above it all.  The lights flashed from yellow to blue to green.  The crowd cheered.

May and June had flown by so fast, Pidge reflected.  And July would get sent on its way, too.  But in that moment, it didn’t feel like time was slipping through her fingers.  No, it was just like what Matt was singing: _while you’re here / when you’re gone / I’ll still be holding on._

“They’re good,” someone in front of her said to his friend, bobbing his head.

 _Yeah,_ Pidge thought, grinning.  _They really are._

 

♪ ♫ ♪

 

 

When Keith found her after the show was finished, Pidge was wringing out her hair.  She’d gotten caught in the crossfire of a water balloon fight, bowing out on an honorable discharge after lobbing some return ammunition of her own.

“Careful,” she teased as he approached.  “You’ve got groupies, now.”

Keith glanced behind him to where, sure enough, a few girls stood.  At his attention, they giggled.  One of them waved.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Keith as he turned back to her, though he looked slightly discomfited. “Listen, Pidge—”

Her stomach dropped.  Nothing good came from those starting words.  Even though she’d expected them, they stung.

“It’s okay,” she said hurriedly.  _Rip it off like a band-aid._   “Whatever speech you’ve prepared—I’m too young for you, you’ll be busy with college—just… save your breath.  I got the message, like, two weeks ago.”

“I.”  Keith blinked.  “Wait, no.”

“No?”

“No, I came over here to tell you I _like_ you.”

The first whistling shriek of a rocket overhead coincided perfectly with the mental implosion happening inside her brain.  Keith had actually liked her.  He’d _known_ how he felt, and he’d kept her in limbo for the past two weeks in order to, what, prolong some sort of cat-and-mouse chase?  The initial giddiness she’d felt mixed with confusion in her gut, a healthy dose of anger alongside it.

The anger won out.  “What the hell were these last two weeks about, then?”

Keith reared back at her outburst.  “I thought I was going too fast for you.  I was trying to give you some space.”

“And you couldn’t have talked about it with me like a _normal_ person?”

Keith’s nostrils flared.  “I didn’t want it to seem like I was pressuring you.  I’m the older guy from out of town.  I know how that stuff looks.  And you’re smart, Pidge, you’ve got so much going for you.  I didn’t want to mess that up.  I wasn’t going to be _that guy.”_

Pidge bristled.  “You’re giving yourself an awful lot of credit.”

“Look, I’m _trying_ to apologize—”

“Then you could start by actually saying, ‘I’m sorry’!”

“Okay! Fine.  _I’m sorry,_ Pidge, that I didn’t tell you sooner—”

“And stop calling me Pidge!” she said, dangerously close to hysterical.  “It’s pissing me off!”

“What—why is it pissing you off?” demanded Keith, derailed.  “You specifically told me that it’s what everyone close to you calls you.”

“Yeah, but.”  Pidge didn’t know why she was still arguing.  Nerves, probably.  Maybe this was her curse: put her in front of an attractive boy and she’d either tear his throat out or ramble until the heat death of the universe.  “I _liked_ that you called me something different.  It made it special.  When you switched to Pidge, you… you _bro_ -zoned me.”

“I wasn’t—”  Keith exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Pidge.  _Katie._   I’ve wanted to kiss you since that time in Shiro's backyard.”

“…Oh.”

Keith raised an eyebrow.  “Oh?”

“Shut up, okay?  I don’t have a good quip for that.”

Keith smiled.  A full-blown one, this time, teeth stretched white in the darkness, illuminated by the fireworks bursting overhead.

“That’s kind of what I was hoping would happen.”

Pidge narrowed her eyes.  “There are better ways to make me stop talking, you know.”

Keith’s smile drew closer.  She was going to go cross-eyed trying to keep track of it.

“Noted,” he said, and then he had one hand tangled in her hair, the other hooked in the belt loop of her shorts, pulling her against him.

He was a good kisser.  Granted, Pidge didn’t have any prior point of comparison, but he was definitely doing _something_ right, what with the way her skin was buzzing.  Experimentally, she tugged on the end of his hair.  Keith’s mouth parted in response, tugging her bottom lip between his.

“Keith!” Matt’s voice approached.  “Hey, Keith, have you seen my sis—what the _fu—”_

“Run?”  Keith had pulled back.  His eyes shone violet-blue, a spark Pidge wanted to hold on to.

She grinned wickedly, grabbing his hand.

“Run.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [tumblr](https://amillionsmiles.tumblr.com/) or [twitter!](https://twitter.com/mnonoaware)


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